On Friday, at a quarter past eight, he dashes to the door and rings violently. Hearing his voice in the hall, you go to meet him.
“Sorry I’m late,” he sings out cheerily. “Fool of a cabman took me to Alfred Place instead of—”
“Well, what do you want now you are come?” you interrupt, feeling anything but genially inclined towards him. He is an old friend, so you can be rude to him.
He laughs, and slaps you on the shoulder.
“Why, my dinner, my dear boy, I’m starving.”
“Oh,” you grunt in reply. “Well, you go and get it somewhere else, then. You’re not going to have it here.”
“What the devil do you mean?” he says. “You asked me to dinner.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” you tell him. “I asked you to dinner on Thursday, not on Friday.”
He stares at you incredulously.
“How did I get Friday fixed in my mind?” inquiringly.